


dress me in your favorite disguise

by 19red



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Explicit Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, Jonny being a tad overprotective and having a big dick like it's custom, M/M, Multi, Oblivious idiots constructing intricate rituals, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23344072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/19red/pseuds/19red
Summary: Just two bors... having a threesome and definitely not thinking about each other's dicks 'cause they're not gay!(They might be little bisexual, though.)
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 59
Kudos: 241





	dress me in your favorite disguise

**Author's Note:**

> \+ It's already in the tags, but just to make it super clear: **Patrick and Jonny have a threesome with a lady** in this one, so if that's not your thing... now you know? 
> 
> \+ It's all fake etc etc
> 
> \+ Thank you if you decide to read!!

It starts with Patrick scoring the game-winner almost four minutes into OT— or maybe it starts a little before that, with Jonny’s perfect set-up, or maybe a little after, with Jonny crushing into him so fast Patrick didn’t even have time for a proper celly before his body was being slammed back against the boards and Jonny was pressing in _close close close_ , bumping their helmets together, tangling their limbs with such messy enthusiasm it was a miracle they didn’t both end up with their asses flat on the ice.

Honestly, it doesn’t really matter how it came to be. The fact is: Patrick's fucking horny, hitching to get his dick touched with an urgency that’s kinda rejuvenating. He must have been sixteen and freshly acquainted with the real life possibility of sex that happens someplace other than his own head, the last time he felt this crazy starved.

No way he’s gonna be able to sleep it off, so on the ride back to the hotel, he tunes in while they guys make plans for the rest of the night and when Shawzy hollers from the other end of the bus, “You in, Kaner?”, he flashes him a smile and shouts back, “Fuck yeah, man.”

Jonny hasn’t said anything about not wanting to come out yet. Patrick’s eyes flit toward him—third row from the front, left side, body all twisted so he can chat with Seabs behind him, one arm braced across the aisle, blocking the way like a true asshole, like he thinks he owns the place.

A little thrill runs through Patrick, leftover adrenaline or something.

It’d be just plain rude of Jonny to deprive the team of an opportunity to chirp him for being old and boring if he actually intended to bail on the fun, and Jonny usually knows how to be a good sport.

  
  


Back at the hotel, Patrick glares at the crazy-haired man who stares him down from inside the fogged-up mirror, before letting a flacon of gel slobber half its content onto his palm.

A door slams open and almost in unison, Jonny’s voice: “Kaner!”

Patrick startles, which causes a glob of goo to drool over his bare foot.

“What the fuck do you want?” he yells, kind of annoyed. He tries to rub his foot clean against his calf and almost chips a tooth falling face first into the sink.

Jonny yells back, “Can’t find my charger,” which is zero percent Patrick’s problem.

“And?”

“And I need it?”

Patrick can hear him rummaging through piles of stuff that doesn’t belong to him, discarding what’s of no interest—some balled-up socks, maybe; sleeping attire; a solid grasp on the notion of personal property. The mental picture of the ensuing chaos is enough to give Patrick the beginning of a headache.

He shoulders open the bathroom door while raking his fingers through his curls, still trying to make them behave. A waft of chilly air hits him square in the chest, making his nipples perk.

Jonny looks up from where he’s kneeling by an open suitcase, then immediately away. “You’re gonna catch a cold.”

Patrick bulldozes past the concern, “Don’t even think about it.”

Being the asshole he is, Jonny does, of course, think about it, then, not satisfied, converts the thought into action and proceeds to plunder the suitcase of Patrick’s charger. “Don’t be rude, bud,” he says, plopping his ass down on his heels.

“Wouldn’t have to be, if you weren’t such a slob,” Patrick waves in the direction of the door connecting their rooms, where the clearly visible mayhem laying all across Jonny’s floor beautifully emphasizes Patrick’s point.

“Gotta be nice to me, Kaner,” Jonny pouts, but Patrick can hear the smirk beneath it. “I’m your captain.” What an asshole.

Patrick sighs and points toward Jonny’s room again, “Just don’t bring it over there or neither of us is ever going to see it again.”

He’s trying to think of something feisty to add to counterbalance his concession when for the first time since he barged out of the bathroom, Jonny’s full focus lends steadily on him, swipes past his face, throat, chest, gets pulled toward the bruised purpling his ribs like a magnet to a slab of metal. Patrick has to rein back the impulse of wrapping his arms around himself and ducking away from the scrutiny as Jonny scoots forwards on his knees and glares at Patrick’s body from up close, as though trying to intimidate it into healing itself faster, preferably right the fuck now.

“Looks nasty,” Jonny says, glancing up through his lashes intently.

Getting a little beaten up from time to time is part of the job. Patrick shrugs. He doesn’t mind. It definitely has its perks. Chicks go crazy for the whole tough guy aesthetic— and on some level, so does Jonny, actually. His stupid captainly penchant for martyrdom compels him to blame on himself any single scratch Patrick collects on the ice. It’s kind of infuriating. Kind of weirdly gratifying. Jonny _cares_. It’s not like Patrick would ever doubt that, but sometimes it’s nice to have a reminder, always makes his chest feel warm and thick with something he doesn’t have a name for. He bites the inside of his cheek until it stings to keep his smile from showing. “Doesn’t even hurt,” he says, which is a lie that earns him a skeptical scoff. “For real,” he insists.

Jonny gives him a stern look and reaches out. The skin at the back of Patrick’s neck prickles with heat as he steels himself for contact— pointlessly, it turns out, since Jonny only meant to scrub a hand across his creased forehead, over his scalp.

“Fuck the Kings,” Jonny mutters, shaking his head as he hauls himself up to full height, grabbing the charger so tight all the blood drains from his knuckles.

There is suddenly so much of him to take in that the strain to do it at once makes Patrick a little breathless. Jonny looks good, not just in the casual way he always does, but as though he made a purposeful effort to. He’s wearing one of his sluttiest henleys, tight over his arms and pecs to the point of near busting, even with the top three buttons left undone. It’s the one he uses when he feels like picking up. Patrick hasn’t seen it in months.

“So,” he says to change the subject— and also to make sure he’s not reading this wrong. “You coming out tonight?”

Before Jonny’s last girl decided she wanted to be exclusive, he and Jonny used to do this thing, it became a kind of tradition they'd honor on almost every roadie: they'd go to some club, pick up a chick each, bring her back to their adjacent rooms and fuck her- knowing that just a flimsy hotel wall away, the other was doing the exact same thing. Sometimes they'd even forget their joined door a little ajar and then it wasn't just knowing, it was hearing - the slap of skin on skin, moaning, groaning, the low rumble of Jonny's voice spewing pure fucking filth almost non-stop. It was crazy hot. Also, it turned Patrick into a sex god, because like most things between him and Jonny, it devolved into a competition: who could last longer, who could go more rounds, who could make his girl scream louder, come harder. Patrick’s still gutted to this day that it had to stop. Sometimes he still jerks off to the memory. Since Jonny got dumped this summer, he hasn’t been able to stop thinking that maybe—

Jonny looks at Patrick like he knows exactly what Patrick hasn’t been able to stop thinking. Like maybe he hasn’t been able to stop thinking it too. “We had a good game, no?”

“Sure, man,” Patrick really hopes his voice doesn’t sound as eager to Jonny’s ears as it does to his own. He clears his throat as a means of deflection, feeling his whole body flush hot.

“You need to fix your hair, though.”

“Fuck off.”

Jonny loops an arm around his neck and jerks him close. Patrick can smell his aftershave, for fuck’s sake. “Stop putting so much stuff into it,” Jonny laments, tangling a hand in Patrick’s curls and tugging a little. All of Patrick’s hard work, messed up just like that.

“You’re not the boss of me.”

“Kinda am.”

“Fuck off so hard,” Patrick bats him away and stomps back toward the bathroom. He glares over his shoulder one last time before disappearing inside.

Jonny’s voice follows him. “No chick’s gonna want to run her fingers through that.”

“Mean, Jonathan,” Patrick yells, but at the end opts for hiding his hair under a Hawks snapback instead of trying to tame it with a new onslaught of products.

Patrick can feel the moment Jonny spots someone interesting because the fingers he hooked over the back of Patrick’s chair suddenly stop their idle drumming. Against Patrick’s side Jonny’s whole body tenses - toned chest, broad shoulders, thick neck all squared up, on display.

Patrick doesn’t look right away because Stromer has him roped in a conversation about stats and ways to improve their PP. He doesn’t want to be rude, but the young guys really don’t know how to turn off their hockey brains, do they? He hums along for a few minutes until Brinsky blessedly voices an opinion on some show Patrick never heard of apparently so _wrong, wrong, fucking wrong you idiot_ it cannot go unchallenged and Patrick’s finally free to follow Jonny’s gaze to the bar.

The girl is so much Jonny’s type, she might as well been plucked straight from his secret spank bank by the gods of casual hookups - short even in five inch heels, big tits, bouncy blond locks, very clearly interested. She comes with a complimentary friend for Patrick to entertain too.

The friend has sick red hair, is taller, lankier and looks a little meaner. Patrick could be into that. Honestly, he’s so turned on already he could be into just about anything tonight. He watches as Blondie sucks on the straw of her drink, cheeks hallowed, perfectly winged gaze fixed on Jonny the whole length of the pull. Jonny licks his lips and eyefucks her right back.

Patrick’s pants are beginning to feel a little tight when Jonny leans into him and whispers, “At the bar,” as though he thinks he was being subtle with his mating dance and Patrick hasn’t picked up on it like, five minutes ago. Kind of insulting. “What do you say?”

Patrick takes a sip of his beer, then taps the neck of the bottle against his lower lip contemplatively. No matter how burningly he wants to get laid asap, he can’t pass on the opportunity to mess with Jonny when he’s being so dumb and smug. So Patrick says, “Blond one’s hot,” and Jonny, being more predictable than refs fucking up, bites into it. So easy it’s not even funny.

“No way,” he says, putting his cross floor seduction attempt on hold to glare at Patrick. “I’m calling dibs.”

“That’s sexist, Jonathan.”

Jonny’s poor attempt at suppressing his amusement makes a muscle twitch in his cheek. “You’re such a shit.”

“I mean. What if she likes me more?” Patrick smirks, tongue poking through his front teeth in a move that’s a little too impish to be a sure hit with chicks, but that never fails to charm Jonny. In fact, Patrick has it by his own drunken admission that Jonny thinks that smile is _just so fucking adorable, Kaner, I swear._

“Is that the best you’ve got?”

Patrick bats his lashes. “Are you not seduced?”

“Please,” Jonny drawls, “You have barely any game.”

“Fuck you.” Patrick might consider trying to go for Blondie just out of spite. He really might— but then he glances away from Jonny to check on her, and finds her spot at the bar deserted.

He and Jonny panic for a moment, until they realize she and her friend have simply relocated to a corner table. It’s totally a sign that it’s time to stop dicking around.

Patrick lets out a sigh. “I’m backing off,” he says. Since he’s going to have to be the bigger person, he might as well try to gain something from it. “But I’m in charge of movie night until next fucking year. Like, at least.”

Jonny has the nerve to hesitate. Granted, that’s a shit-tonne of hours of sappy rom-coms and shoddy action flicks he’s signing up for but as Patrick reminds him sticking out his right hand, “She’s a fucking smoke-show, Tazer.”

“Alright, fuck you,” Jonny says, and shakes on it. “You don’t even like blondes.”

  
  


Patrick made an excellent bargain. The redhead is pretty funny. Her name is Chelsea, no joke, and she grew up in Chicago. It’s like, destiny. More importantly, midway through their second round of beers, Blondie’s phone chimes with a text, her eyes bug out, and she says, “Holy fucking shit.”

Jonny startles a little. “What?”

She ignores him. Looking slightly manic, she stares at Chelsea and says, “It’s fucking happening.”

“What, now?”

“Shit, yes. I gotta go.”

It turns out her sister’s water broke and Blondie has to bolt to drive her to the hospital.

Patrick can tell Jonny’s trying very hard not to look too bummed by the turn the events have taken because that’d be pretty ungentlemanly of him. Patrick feels a little bad for the guy, at least until he realizes he’s not the only one.

“Come on,” Chelsea says, bumping Jonny’s shoulder and smiling up at him in a way Patrick can’t read. A little sympathetic, a little something else. “Don’t make that face,” she purrs, biting her bottom lip as she studies Jonny’s profile. That’s pretty hard to misunderstand

With zero shock but a bit of disappointment, Patrick realizes she’s going to jump ship. Of course she is. Patrick’s not blind, he can see Jonny too. He is all tall, brooding and handsome, everything chicks dream of, but Patrick kinda thought he and Chelsea connected or something.

He drains his beer in one long gulp. “Give me that,” he says, stealing Jonny’s bottle. If he doesn’t have to worry about the performance of his dick tonight, he’s a hundred percent getting wasted.

It’s gonna be hot anyway, to maybe jerk one off thinking about Jonny fucking her next door. Yeah, Patrick thinks, glaring at Jonny’s bottle, it’s gonna be so fucking hot. In fact, he is getting more and more into the idea with each passing second— and then Chelsea winks and says, “I’m sure I can handle both of you.”

Patrick, who was just about to take a pull, chokes on air and his own spit. 

  
  


When Chelsea excuses herself to the restroom, Jonny scoots closer. “Peeks,” he says, ducking his head to catch Patrick’s eyes. “I can just fuck off if you want.”

“No way,” Patrick kicks Jonny’s ankle under the table to distract him from the weird inflection his voice has taken. Jonny kicks him right back. “You want to do it, right?”

“Sure, man.”

“Cool. Like,” Patrick clears his throat, “it’d suck to die without having had a threesome.”

“Who says I haven’t.”

“Shut up, you have not. I’d know if you had.”

“I’m a fucking gentleman,” Jonny says, knocking Patrick’s snapback off his head.

Patrick’s mouth falls open in shock. He plays it up for spectacle, hoping Jonny won’t notice how genuine the sentiment behind it actually is. “With who?” he asks, squashing the hat back over his head, as his mind races with possible answers. It’s so not bros of Jonny to keep something like that to himself, to even think of doing it with anyone who’s not Patrick. If it’s fucking Oshie—

“One of Lindsay’s girlfriends,” Jonny says, and Patrick recognizes the wave of relief washing over him for what it is, but decides he doesn’t want to spoil the mood by over-analyzing it.

He wiggles his eyebrows like a creep. “Was it hot?”

“Yeah.”

“Way more dicks this time around though. You think it’s gonna be weird?”

“It’s not like you have to touch any beside yours,” Jonny says.

“I know. But like, might still feel a little gay.”

“I can just fuck off if you want,” he bristles, leaning away from Patrick.

“No, come on,” Patrick hooks his fingers in the collar of Jonny’s henley to keep him from going anywhere, to draw him back in a little. He has barely time to notice how warm Jonny’s skin feels against his knuckles that Jonny is batting his hand away.

“You’ll ruin it.”

“I was just kidding,” Patrick goes on, as though uninterrupted. They’re going to do this. It’s suddenly very important that they are. “You’re gonna give me this fucking threesome, okay?” he says, staring right into Jonny’s big dark murder-shark eyes.

“Okay,” Jonny huffs. “Sure, buddy.”

“We’re gonna have fun,” Patrick checks again.

Jonny pats him on the thigh reassuringly, then squeezes a little, just above his knee. “Sure.”

Once the contact is gone, Patrick chases it with his own hand, trying to lock the phantom pressure into his flesh.

“That’s a big dick,” Chelsea says, sounding so awed it distracts Patrick from the rather appealing sight of his own cock pumping into the loose, teasing circle of her fist.

Jonny has already littered all his clothes across the floor and now stands stark naked at the heart of Patrick’s room, just begging to be admired. Fucking show-off. Patrick gets caught a moment on the smug curl of his lips, before a flare of movement directs his gaze downward, to where Jonny’s impressively-sized hand is shamelessly palming Jonny’s impressively-sized hard-on. That _is_ a big dick. Which is like, not surprising since Patrick has shared locker-rooms with Jonny basically their whole lives, but also super fucking surprising since even though the physics of it seem to skirt the realm of impossibility, Jonny somehow still manages to be a grower.

Some wicked alchemy in the air turns Patrick’s knees to jelly.

Jonny steadies him with a hand on the crook of the shoulder, then forgets it there, palm broad and so freakishly hot it burns past the fabric of Patrick’s shirt and into his skin like a brand. It’s wild that Jonny’s close enough to do that, it feels like he was half a room away just a second ago. Has Patrick been staring at his dick for so long it garbled the flow of time? That’s super not bros.

Thankfully, Jonny seems already too invested in the process of locating Chelsea’s tonsils through the sole aid of his tongue to really give a shit about anything else. It makes for a filthy visual, and Patrick sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, ears filled with wet, hungry noises that travel in a shiver across his spine, straight to his dick.

He tries to guide the action toward the bed, which is kind of difficult with his pants hanging mid thighs and reveals utterly inconsequential as soon as the kissing party separates for air, halting not even three whole steps from where they started.

The hand at Patrick’s shoulder slides to the back of his neck, squeezes, pushes him forward. So fucking demanding. Chelsea smiles, mouth spit-slick and already a little swollen— _someone_ likes to bite. Patrick’s stomach swoops, heat pooling in his groin. Trying not to dwell on the thought that at least part of that spit must belong to Jonny, he yields to the pressure at his nape and lunges in for a kiss. Chelsea denies him when their lips are just a whisper apart.

“Are you taking this off or what?” she asks, tugging on the hem of his shirt, raking it up halfway across his chest. In the frenzy, her fingers brush over his mottled ribs, and he hisses in pain.

Jonny’s head jerks up from where it had dipped to nibble at her earlobe. His hand darts to her wrist, steering it away from the tenderness at Patrick’s side. “Careful,” he snaps in his Captain-voice, so harsh it shocks through Patrick like the lick of a whip.

Chelsea quirks an eyebrow.

“It’s okay,” Patrick says, hoping Jonny’s callousness won’t turn into a mood-killer.

“Sorry,” she says anyway, smoothing an apologetic palm over his chest. She doesn’t look put off in the slightest, just appraising.

“I don’t mind.”

“Thought so,” she hums. “This you mind?” Her nails dig experimentally into his abs, leaving an angry red trail as she scratches her way up. Jonny hasn’t let go of her wrist, so every mean bite of her fingertips fades in the drag of his knuckles, the soothing glide of the back of his hand. “Shit, your dick loved that. You like it to hurt a little?” she says as she pinches one of his nipples, more a statement than a question. Apparently, Patrick fucking does. His dick twitches again in her grasp. “He does. God, that’s so hot. You’re so lucky,” Chelsea murmurs nonsensically.

“He doesn’t—” Jonny starts at the same time Patrick gasps, “Fuck.”

_Fuck_.

Patrick screws his eyes shut, forgets his lips parted. For a moment the world curbs to the wet, maddening sound of Jonny’s harsh breathing. They could be cramping back on the bench, short-winded after a shift. They could be in their room, rookie year, Jonny doing half-naked push-ups between the beds, Patrick being an asshole about it, saying something nasty. Not looking.

He doesn’t need to look to know that Jonny is watching. That’s what a decade of mind-melding hockey does to you. He could recognize the weight of Jonny’s stare anywhere, the very peculiar way it messes with the physiology of Patrick’s body, making his skin prickle and his pulse ratchet and the adrenaline in his system spike up like crazy.

Chelsea twists the fingers on his nipple, ripping something like a whine from the depths of his throat. His head tips back on its own accord, chest pushing out, inviting more. The thought of Jonny knowing this about him makes his guts curl with shame and some dizzying high he doesn’t have a name for.

“Come on,” Jonny says suddenly.

A gust of motion severs all the points of contact between Patrick’s body and anyone else’s. When he opens his eyes, Jonny is herding Chelsea toward the bed. The cold slaps Patrick’s brain out of glitch. He grants himself the space of two deep breaths before finally stepping out of his pants and hastening after them on only just barely trembling legs.

After some quick negotiation, Patrick ends up sprawled against the headboard with Chelsea lapping at his cock while Jonny fucks her on two fingers and unwraps a condom one-handed. Patrick feels like he just fell inside a porno.

“Oh, fuck,” Chelsea says as Jonny hooks both of his hands at the dip of her waist and backs her down onto his cock. After that, the quality of her blow-job rapidly deteriorates. She gives a valiant attempt at keeping it up, but mostly just ends up with her face squashed into Patrick’s lap, exhaling ragged blissed-out nonsense and slobbering all over because apparently Jonny - fucking show-off - is pounding her too good to allow her the coherence and coordination necessary for any task more complex than the one of sheer existing.

It’s some kind of torture.

Feeling vengeful, Patrick stretches out a leg and tries to deliver a kick to Jonny’s sheen, but Jonny just drops a hand over his ankle, pinning it still. Doesn’t even dignify the offense with a glare, doesn’t look at Patrick at all, which only serves to make Patrick more annoyed. He squirms and Jonny locks his fingers tighter. Patrick’s body is so starved for any kind of substantial pressure that the contact ripples through his limbs like a jolt of electricity. Some fucked up part of his brain wonders how would it feel if Jonny were touching his dick. His hips buck up uselessly.

“Fuck, sorry,” Chelsea says, the words punched out of her all frayed at the edges, feathering the side of Patrick’s neglected dick, wet, warm and teasing. She mouths apologetically along the shaft, before wrapping a hand loosely around it and letting Jonny’s thrusts dictate the rhythm of her strokes. “He’s just— so good.”

“Yeah,” Patrick agrees dumbly. It seems Jonny’s trying to grind the bones of his ankle to dust.

He closes his fingers over Chelsea’s, making her grip firmer. “Yeah, I know.” Maybe he’s gonna leave a bruise. Patrick’s gonna feel it the next time he skates. It’s all suddenly so much. The skin feels all wrong on his body, too hot, too tight, buzzing as though every molecule in his blood just morphed into a separate swarm of bees.

Chelsea’s looking like a wet dream, all wanton and disheveled, but Jonny’s crazy intense eyes are trained on the patch of Patrick’s skin he’s touching, and that’s so hot, for some fucking reason. The breath hitches in Patrick’s chest and he bites down on his lips to keep any embarrassing noise inside.

“Don’t come,” Jonny’s voice cuts over the damp, slick noises echoing across the room. At the moment, English doesn’t make much sense to Patrick so he keeps jerking up needily into his own fist.

“Kaner,” Jonny grunts when his demand isn’t immediately acknowledged. “I said don’t come.”

“Fuck off,” Patrick snarls, after he’s patched some meaning to Jonny’s low gravelly drawl. “I’m not gonna.”

“Good. Be good,” Jonny says in that annoying way he sometimes has, scolding and taunting at the same time, virtually impossible to disregard. To Patrick’s dazed brain it sounds like the sexiest thing ever. He can’t help the whine that escapes him as he wrenches his hand away from his dick and buries it in the crumpled-up mess of sheets, clutching at it until his knuckles turn white. “You haven’t fucked her yet, and you have to, Peeks. I wanna watch. You gonna do it for me? Yeah, you’d like that, baby?” Patrick’s stomach flip-flops. Jonny calls him baby all the time on the ice and so does half the team, that’s just how hockey works. It feels kind of different like this, kind of honest, a bit scary— but then Jonny goes on, “You wanna feel that pretty dick inside you? Wanna feel what it can do? I’m gonna make you come so hard baby, then he’s gonna fuck you again right after.”

Patrick startles at the ferocity of his shame, at the clean ache of disappointment ringing inside his ribcage. He’s so fucking stupid.

“Please,” Chelsea begs.

Jonny flips her over like she weighs nothing and falls forward, covering her body up with his. Making the bunching and shifting of his back’s muscles, the snapping of his hips the only things in Patrick’s line of sight. Patrick can’t look. Can hardly do anything, can barely breathe, the air too heavy with the smell of sex and sweat.

Jonny licks Chelsea’s desperation straight off her lips, muffling her high-pitched keens. They haven’t kissed much since the beginning. It’s still filthy hot but this time, Patrick’s stomach knots up. Spitefully, he wonders: can Jonny taste his dick on her tongue? He fucking hopes so. He has to stop wondering very fast, though. Can’t let his mind swirl back to that thought, not if he wants to be good—and he does he does he does, for Jonny.

Chelsea comes screaming and digging her nails into Jonny’s shoulder-blades.

When Jonny pulls out he’s still hard.

Patrick feels a little frenzied. He squeezes his dick at the root until it hurts in a non-sexy way and pictures the Blues winning another Cup. It takes the edge off for the moment, but he still doesn’t trust himself not to shoot in half a second if he were to fuck Chelsea now.

“I wanna eat you out,” he tells her after she’s regained control of her most basic functions. “Bet I can make you come harder.”

Her breathe explodes in an airy little giggle as her legs spread lazily in challenge. “Go for it, champ.”

“It’s not a competition,” Jonny scowls.

Patrick shoves him aside, fighting to ignore how warm and solid his body feels, how impossibly magnetized. “Totally gonna smoke you,” he blusters, just so he’ll get a shove back, some amicable roughing. More of Jonny’s body being close.

Jonny holds back. “Show me, then,” he scoffs.

Patrick plans on bestowing upon Chelsea a soul-altering experience, the best orgasm of her entire life. He’ll make her work for it, drag it out until she’s so hungry she’s babbling out plea after plea—he’ll fucking _show_ Jonny.

The problem is, Chelsea’s dripping wet. Patrick begins to taste her as he trails open mouth kisses along her inner thigh and his dick twitches against the sheets. The awareness that Jonny did that, that he turned her into such a mess leaves no room for world-rocking pussy-eating technique, grows larger and larger inside Patrick, until all he can think about as he dips his tongue between her folds, is that Jonny’s dick was just right there. In a matter of seconds, Patrick finds himself humping the bed like he as no reins over the neediness of his body.

Gasping and arching toward his mouth, Chelsea tangles a hand in his curls looking for purchase. She tugs just a little, testing his boundaries. He welcomes the distraction, something else to focus on besides the thrum of _Jonny Jonny Jonny_ everywhere, his blood and lungs and fucking soul, it feels like. “You can,” he kind of pleads, flicking his eyes across the stretched length of her torso to catch her gaze and leer, dressing up his desperation as encouragement. “Come on, harder. You can,” he says but apparently, he’s wrong—she totally can’t. Her fingers yank free, but he doesn’t have time to protest before a rough weight lands over the crown of his head, grabbing a fistful of curls and shoving him back to Chelsea’s pussy, pulling hard enough to make Patrick’s scalp tingle. With a thrill, he recognizes Jonny. He whines low in his throat, a profusion of frantic vibrations that make Chelsea’s thighs start shaking uncontrollably on either side of his head.

“Are you going to make her come again Peeks? Are you gonna show her what that mouth of yours can do?” Jonny asks, Patrick can hardly hear him over the blood roaring in his ears and the rest of his filthy spiel is lost to him. Even like that, the constant background droning at Jonny-frequencies is almost enough to send him over the edge. When Chelsea comes, clamping down on his fingers as he sucks on her clit, he’s so hard he’s leaking.

A huge wet patch stares up at him from his spot on the sheets as he sits back on his haunches. “Fuck,” he pants, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth.

Jonny is flushed red halfway through his chest, belly heaving and collapsing rhythmically, dick softening against the strong muscles of his thigh. With a pang of disappointment, Patrick realizes he’s already come.

“Fuck,” Jonny says, voice wrecked. Gaze roaming over Patrick’s face in some sort of post-orgasmic haze. Eyes, mouth, hair, mouth, neck, mouth, eyes, mouth—he fixes on that. “Look at you.” He reaches out like he can’t help himself, wiping a thumb across the mess of juices on Patrick’s chin, smearing it up over Patrick’s already slick lips. Patrick parts them for him on pure instinct and Jonny pushes inside as unthinkingly, holds Patrick’s tongue down and his mouth open wide, and Patrick just lets him, breath stuck in his throat. Jonny thrusts in shallowly a couple of times, trailing the motion with eyes so dark, they make something animal inside Patrick quiver.

“Suck,” Jonny says and Patrick’s complying even before his brain has finished processing the request. Overeager, like he’s been gagging for it the whole time, he hollows his cheeks and puckers his lips around the girth of Jonny’s finger, running his tongue along the underside, imagining that’s what he’d do if his mouth were stuffed with dick instead. He feels so fucking filthy, so weak with want that just another word from Jonny would be enough to make him fall apart.

“Oh my god,” Chelsea says, blinking back to life. Jonny jerks away like Patrick bit him. “Oh my god. I literally can’t feel my toes. I think I saw god.”

“Come on, he wasn’t that good,” Jonny scoffs pissily.

“Don’t be jealous,” Chelsea laughs, slow to sit up. “You were okay too.”

She leers at Patrick kind of conspiratorially as she crawls across the bed toward him, like she has a read on Jonny’s pathological drive to always be the best at everything and is commending Patrick on his ability to deal with it on regular basis.

Once she’s settled between Patrick’s legs, she looks at Jonny very deliberately over her shoulder and asks, “Can I make him come now?” which does spark something hot in Patrick’s lower belly but also, what the fuck.

“Yes, you can,” he says, impatient. He’s been so turned on and for so fucking long his damned balls ache. He doesn’t miss - neither does he totally resent (it’s just so fucking _hot_ ) - the way she waits for Jonny to nod her the go-ahead before she finally turns back to Patrick and pushes him flat on his back.

When she takes him in her mouth, he comes so fast it’d be embarrassing if after his orgasm he had enough energy left to feel anything besides wiped boneless.

  
  


The afterglow wears off far too quickly. In the breath that takes Chelsea to ask, “Can I use your shower?”, full sentience barrels back into Patrick and it’s, uh. A merciless affair. A sudden onslaught of vulnerability punches a churning, spiked void in his stomach. Did he just suck on Jonny’s thumb? What the fuck. What was he thinking?

“Sure,” he says because that’s the normal thing to do, even though he hitches to clasp her nearest limb and beg, _please stay_ . The prospect of being alone with Jonny spooks him so much he feels sick. “Sure,” he repeats, sitting up as she leaves. He lets his legs dangle off the bed, shoulders turned to everything that happened on it. To everything that is still happening— Jonny, spent and placid, eyelids drooping. Sprawled naked over the sheets like the victim of a decades-old prank involving the uprooting of the page listing the definition of the word _decorum_ from every dictionary ever handed to him. What a fucking show-off.

Patrick fishes his boxers from the floor and shimmies inside them without getting up. He still feels too fucking exposed after. To cover up the silence, he combs a hand through his hair and says, “I’m gross.”

Jonny dishes a customary tease, he says, “What’s new,” like nothing is—except how his voice drawls even slower than usual, sounds even more gravelly. Except how he and Patrick just kind of had sex. What the fuck.

When Patrick attempts a glance over his shoulder, Jonny’s still just laying there, all mellow vibes and exposed junk. He looks so soft and warm, Patrick wants to crawl closer and tuck himself next to him so they can doze off together, which is fucking weird. Bros don’t cuddle with their dicks out, that’s kind of gay. Patrick’s face burns.

“Fuck off,” he says, throwing a pillow in Jonny’s general direction. “Cover the fuck up, dude.”

Jonny just shrugs and shoves the pillow over his lap, so chill he makes Patrick feel like a weirdo for being as strung up as he is.

“I call dibs on your shower,” he says, needing to get away, and closes the door between their rooms as he disappears into Jonny’s without waiting for a replay.

It turns out it’s a great idea. The thrum of the water washes off most of his nerves, leaving him exhausted.

When he comes out, he sniffs a couple of t-shirts laying around and picks up an old UND one that doesn’t smell too rancid. The fabric is worn-thin and stretched-out because Jonny still uses it to sleep sometimes, even though he bulked up significantly since he was a teen. It’s too big on Patrick, collar drooping half off his shoulder, but it’s not like he needs to look good as he passes out.

The low rumble of conversation filters through from the next room. Chelsea must be out of the shower too, exchanging pleasantries with Jonny before they part ways. Patrick faceplants over the bed and wonders if Jonny is going to kiss her goodbye, if he’s the kind of hookup that does that. He probably is.

The chattering goes on for so fucking long, Patrick starts to drift off as he considers switching on the TV.

“You made yourself comfortable, I see.”

Patrick blinks his eyes open. Jonny is setting a Gatorade down over the nightstand. He put on some underwear, at least.

“That’s my favorite,” he flicks Patrick’s bicep just below the hem of his stolen t-shirt.

“Sorry,” Patrick mumbles guiltily, flopping onto his back. It’s not like he didn’t know.

Jonny shrugs and absolves him, soft-voiced, “It’s okay.”

Patrick takes a gulp of Gatorade just to make him happy. “Is she gone?”

“Yeah. Gonna hop in the shower now.”

“Wait,” Patrick catches his hand and whines, “bring me the remote, first.”

“You’re so spoiled.”

“You’re so whipped.”

Jonny rolls his eyes pretty big at the truth, then proves Patrick’s point by embarking in the quest to fulfill his demand half a second later.

“What were you two talking about? I’ve been waiting here for like, a year.” Patrick watches Jonny inspect the perimeter of the bed, then the TV stand, then the desk in the far corner.

“Nothing,” Jonny says, sorting through the clutter, shuffling his laptop around and finally unearthing the remote. “She gave me her number.”

“What?” Patrick asks, surprised more by the weird sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach than by the totally predictable reveal.

“Fuck off. No need to act so shocked.”

“I’m not,” he defends. He’s pretty sure he’d leave his number too if he were a chick. Jonny’s such a glaringly good catch, only a fool wouldn’t try to turn a hookup into something real given the chance. “Are you like, gonna use it?”

“Nah.”

“Why not? She’s hot.” Even though it must sound needy, Patrick can’t help but prod—he needs to be sure Jonny had fun too, “It was hot, right?”

“You were there,” Jonny says curtly on a half-shrug. He waves the remote in front of Patrick’s face. Patrick grabs it, kind of annoyed.

“Give me the number then.”

“What?”

“If you’re not gonna use it… Besides, she only gave it to you because I wasn’t there. Didn’t want to be rude by saying like, this is for your hot friend.”

Jonny scoffs, so Patrick doubles down, “Come on, Tazer. She was like--” he tries to conjure an appropriate qualifier but as he concentrates to recall anything remarkable about Chelsea, his brain crowds with Jonny-related flashes. Jonny’s eyes and his hands on Patrick, the way his voice had sounded post orgasm, the way he had tasted in Patrick’s mouth. “Nice, yeah? And funny and stuff,” he stumbles, fixing his gaze on the remote. What if Jonny is remembering Patrick sucking on his thumb, eager and easy like some fucking puck bunny. “And she was like, hot as fuck, right? I think I’m in love, man.”

“Whatever,” Jonny sighs, a muscle jumping in his jaw. “Do whatever. It’s in my phone.”

“Okay,” Patrick says slowly. The energy in the room shifted in a blink. “Where’s your phone?”

“Somewhere, I don’t know. You have eyes and legs, no? I didn’t even get my fucking shower yet.”

God, Jonny’s like a toddler, he gets super cranky when he’s tired. The snippiness is kind of catching. “Then go, man,” Patrick grouses, “what the fuck.”

The thing is, he doesn’t even like Chelsea that much. He’s beat and the mattress feels like heaven against his back, but he wobbles off and into the other room anyway, just to annoy Jonny. Finding the phone’s easy. In less than a minute he’s crawling back into bed, slipping under the cover with Chelsea’s number and no idea what to text her.

He’s definitely going to text her something.

Jonny seemed to hate the idea but tried to act all unbothered. If he likes her, he can’t expect Patrick to read his fucking mind. He’ll have to tell Patrick to back off using his words as functional adults do.

“No way.” Patrick looks up from his phone. Jonny’s stepping out of the bathroom, still half-naked. Little beads of water clinging to his flushed skin. “Get back to your room.”

Very pointedly, Patrick sinks lower against the headboard. “What should I text her? I wanna be charming.”

“Come on,” Jonny says, tugging the covers off Patrick as he climbs into bed.

“There’s your jizz all over the sheets.”

“That’s your problem, and also your jizz. I came in the condom.”

“That’s gross, I don’t wanna know.”

Jonny picks up the remote laying forsaken at Patrick’s side and switches on the TV. “Can you go now? I’m tired.”

“You’re watching TV,” Patrick points out, trying to battle him for the remote, but Jonny shoves him back roughly without even taking his eyes off the screen.

“Stay on your side, jesus. You’re so fucking annoying.”

Something cold stings Patrick’s insides as he blinks at Jonny’s sharp profile, at the stony set of his jaw. Jonny’s a physical guy and he grew up with a brother—he never turns down an opportunity to assert his alpha-male status with a bit of play-fighting. What if he’s weirded out by the prospect of sharing space because he can tell that Patrick is having weird feelings? What if the weirdness is irreversible and Jonny is never going to touch him again and they screwed up their friendship for good?

“Jonny,” Patrick ventures, trying and failing to catch Jonny’s eyes. His throat feels all lumped up. “Jonny, can I stay?”

Jonny finally looks at him, face doing something complicated. “Just don’t kick me,” he says, turning the TV off.

In the dark, Patrick keeps tossing around, still feeling slightly off-kilter.

“Stop,” Jonny mutters, but Patrick can’t, head running a thousand miles per hour, skin crawling with electricity.

He rolls to his side.

Flops to his back.

Jonny sighs gustily.

Patrick rolls to his side again, then—something very heavy flattens him belly first into the mattress.

Jonny shifts, careful not to put weight on Patrick’s bruised ribs as he speaks right into his ear, “Be still.”

“You’re squashing me, asshole,” Patrick protests, making a half-assed attempt to wrestle him off. Jonny bears down more firmly, his entire body sprawled all over Patrick’s.

This is probably the closest they’ve ever been, Patrick realizes. He feels the drum of Jonny’s heart against his own back. Feels the breath swelling Jonny’s chest and shape into words on the scruff of his own neck. “Can’t sleep if you keep moving around like that, Peeks” Jonny says, apologetic, but not enough to let go. Maybe it’s weird, but Patrick clasps his wrist to make sure.

He falls asleep like that, trying to time his exhales to Jonny’s.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit of a teaser, I have like, 50k more of porn and pining developing from this set up all plotted out. If by any chance you’d like to come yell at me to go write, I’m 19red on tumblr too!!


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